Of History and Wisdom
by Kyilliki
Summary: A conversation between Aro and Carlisle, about the past and the nature of power. Written for a request.
1. Chapter 1

**Title:** Of History and Wisdom

**Characters:** Aro, Carlisle

**Author's Note:** This one-shot was requested by idylchild, a friend on livejournal. She wanted a story about Aro mentoring Carlisle. As promised, here is a discussion between the two, featuring references to Machiavelli, Jesus, the ancient Romans and a few abstract concepts.

idylchild and I have very conflicting views on Aro. I believe our first online interaction was a debate about my use of the term 'sociopath' to describe him. Here, I tried to display his intellectual side, which she loves, while keeping a little bit of evil within his character.

* * *

Carlisle's steps through Volterra's still corridors were nervous, a patter of feet that mimicked a rabbit's pulse in anxious hurry. With a hesitant smile, he reassured himself that he was not a schoolboy, tardy for a lesson and deserving of a reprimand from the master, but merely a man seeking his friend to discuss the contents of a folio, cautiously clutched between interwoven fingers.

Nonetheless, there was something volatile in the bond between acquaintances, a sure imbalance where Aro held the upper hand, secure in knowledge and the might that stretched before him, a dynasty carved in militant obedience, in stone and parchment. It was enough to unnerve, though Carlisle knew that he received only curious kindness from his ebony-haired mentor.

It was preferable, he supposed, to the acerbic, battle-seeking dislike of Caius or the still, skeletal apathy of Marcus' gaze.

.-.

"Good evening, Carlisle," Aro sang, the whispery tremolo of his voice terribly out of place in the dust-filmed serenity of the library. The susurrus of echoes melded with the rustling of pages carelessly threaded through eager fingers.

"As always, it is a pleasure." The younger man settled himself at the opposite side of a table, an ancient thing resting upon gilded claws and covered with moldering manuscripts in characters that were utterly alien.

Aro's smile was cheerful, gleaming with enthusiasm like the play of sunlight upon a blade, and Carlisle wondered how long it had been since his companion had taught a pupil how to discuss and wonder, as the scholars of old had done.

"Tell me, did you enjoy my recommendation?" A translucent hand gestured to the book the golden immortal had placed upon the table, the name _Niccolo Machiavelli _neatly emblazoned upon the cover.

"This treatise—it could not have been written in earnest. There are fallacies, ridiculous claims… Aro, I believe that any man who tried to rule by these standards would find himself at the head of a burned and empty empire." The words left his mouth far too quickly, and Carlisle wondered why he was so rapidly dismissing a carefully-penned manifesto. Perhaps, he decided, it was because he feared that Aro would disapprove.

"Very good, dear friend. You align yourself with the philosophers of your day, idealists the lot of them. It is an admirable viewpoint."

"You do not agree?"

"I am afraid not." Aro's smile was catlike while curiosity shone in his eyes, as though he was willing to await justification.

"Take into consideration Machiavelli's other works- he shows himself to be a republican, a man who valued defending the common people from a tyrant's whims." Those texts, Carlisle remembered, were enjoyable. There was something soothing, intellectually peaceful, about the advocation for justice in graceful terms.

"Ah yes, because his other writings were aimed at the unwashed rabble. This little book, young one, is _for_ the tyrants. Although dear Niccolo makes some attempts at satire while seeking to denounce political enemies, he also captures the spirit that has always defined the acquisition of power."

Carlisle hesitated then, worrying at the corners of pages before dropping his hand, remembering that the fine paper beneath his fingers was likely delicate and without price. "Forgive me, Aro, but do you believe that following this man's political theory to the letter will lay the foundations of a kingdom?"

Something beatific entered Aro's expression. "If you observe Rome's unfolding, you will see that its kings, its senate and emperors lived by that precarious balance of force and benevolence precisely."

This veneration of forgotten days was nothing new to Carlisle; it seemed that the entirety of Volterra lived in dreams of a golden age, expansive and idyllic. Cautiously, he sought the words to draw his friend into the shattered present.

"Rome fell, and the empire was scattered to the winds. Surely such a loss of power disproves your argument."

"Everything mortal is torn asunder in the end," Aro said, with sadly steepled fingers.

"But the cruelty of those days, the barbarism—so many innocents were crucified, tortured for their faith—"

"Of course," the older man agreed. "You speak of your martyrs and of your Christ."

"Indeed I do. They were peaceful, no threat to the rulers of the time, and yet they were murdered." The memorized words of an Easter liturgy echoed in Carlisle's ears, and he remembered how much he had been moved as mortal by the notion of sacrifice.

"Under Roman law, there was nothing greater than the vision, the ideal of the republic," Aro murmured. "Your prophet and followers dismissed it, perhaps rightly so, as an earthly concern. It was the prospect of fractured loyalty that spurred their deaths, the threat that their words could unbalance the delicate equilibrium of power. Dissension, you see, is such a trial."

Carlisle swirled the notion uncomfortably through his thoughts. It was chilling, he decided, how easily Aro could dismiss conflicting opinion, how assured he was that retention of control redeemed any sin.

"Perhaps you do not understand the culture, the single-minded dedication of Rome," Aro mused. "Do you know of their founding story, the myth told to children about the origins of their city?"

"About Romulus and Remus, the twins?" There were sculptures of cherubic infants suckled by a she-wolf, cast in bronze and wrought in marble, hidden in Volterra's shadows.

"Indeed. Do you know why this story was so valued, so crucial to the mindset of its tellers?"

Carlisle shook his head before fishing for reasons. "Perhaps the Romans felt affinity with the rapacity of the wolf?"

"No, my dear friend, not quite. Wolves, after all, are quiet creatures. It was the myth's ending that drew fascination, where one brother kills the other." Aro's tone was gentle, a cadence and an arpeggio; Carlisle found himself tangled in his companion's convictions.

"As you recall, Remus insulted his brother's fledgling city by leaping over its walls in a gesture of mockery. From the beginning, Rome wished to show that its sanctity, its honour was more valuable that familial ties." Aro concluded his tale with seeming satisfaction, as though the moral was not terrifying and the ending unwarranted.

The lapse in conversation turned tense, thrumming as an ill-tuned harpstring and the crimson eyed man spoke first. "I have offended you."

"No, no, it is not quite that simple. I…" he faltered.

A consoling palm was placed upon Carlisle's hand. "Someday, dear friend, you will comprehend that limits need to be set upon behaviour and thought. Else, there will be no governance, no justice. Free will can only be permitted to extend as far as the spirit of the law allows."

The younger man sighed heavily. "It is difficult to perceive the world as you do," he said. "I do not think that I understand the skills you possess."

"You have no need for it," Aro agreed.

Before the silence fell once more, Carlisle smiled, momentarily uplifted. "You cannot say that you live by Machiavelli's precepts, or the laws of Rome. You are not a hypocrite, painting a gilded reputation of civility, nor do you use force untempered by mercy for your own ends." It was a comfort, he decided, to find that his friend had managed to elude the cynicism and crawling darkness that a simple history lesson presented.

"Of course," Aro purred, and Carlisle was not nearly wary enough to catch the shadows of a lie.

* * *

**Extended Author's Note:** This chapter mentions Niccolo Machiavelli, the Italian political thinker, whose most famous book, '_The Prince'_ can be interpreted as a guide to absolute power or as a satire of those who abused it. Obviously, Aro and Carlisle favour opposite interpretations.

This one-shot is quite different from my other stories, talky and certainly theoretical. If you managed to sit through this history lesson/exchange of ideas, please let me know what you think.


	2. Chapter 2

** Author's Note:** This story has involved into a two-shot. This chapter involves a conversation about the soul, the justification behind consuming human blood and some very basic psychology. I hope you enjoy.

* * *

A tawny afternoon crept in upon dainty paws, curling in a puddle of spilled sun within the breathless stillness of the library. Amidst beloved books, Carlisle smiled, a child surrounded by glories that patiently awaited his discovery and delight. A serenity-stained evening pledged to unfurl itself before him, filled only by history unravelling beneath his fingertips.

The screams began with no warning, hissing, pleading gasps splintering the tranquillity and reassembling it into grotesque echoes and effigies. Beneath his hands, parchment was reduced to scraps, littered with letters beyond replacing. It was simple, brutally and elegantly so, to forget that his companions feasted upon blood, that ebony-eyed creatures turned Volterra into a charnel-house whenever such excess could be permitted.

Prayer was no solace as Carlisle's imagination depicted what it was that he condoned, by holding his peace and retaining his place amidst decorously savage hosts who awaited the day when temptation slipped its fangs into his flesh.

.-.

"How—how can you? They are human, and they are so frightened, how can you justify what you—" Carlisle's words turned to steam and silence as Aro's features adjusted themselves into placid, pacifying tenderness. He did not wish to be considered a recalcitrant child, soothed and dismissed; only reason would earn him esteem.

"Please, sit," Aro murmured, gesturing to a chair before his desk. "Explain, dear one, what troubles you so."

"Why must you feed upon mortals, Aro? There is another way, and I do not see why you cannot embrace it. You must acknowledge the merit of draining mere animals, instead of monthly murder," the younger vampire said, aiming to strike a tenuous balance between logic's flint and passion's fire.

An eyebrow was arched and a silvery chuckle punctuated the gesture. "Tell me, why is it that you consider feeding upon creatures of the forest to be preferable to the natural alternative?"

The question's audacity stole Carlisle's speech for a moment, before he hesitantly gathered his thoughts and wagered a reply. "Animals are—are simple. They do not fear or suffer as humans do and their lives are of diminished value."

"Will you permit me a few moments to ponder your position?" Aro said, slithering into a treacherously comfortable pantomime of an elderly schoolmaster challenged by a pupil who shimmered with the untarnished copper of youth and certainly. "You believe, my dear Carlisle, that it is complexity of sentiment and thought that separates mortals from the beasts of forest and field. Am I correct?"

"Of course." The pristine creature pecked at his sleeve with restless hands, fluttering and harried.

"Consider, if you will, a member of the guard. Felix will do. If we are sincere, we must grant that his mind is not his greatest asset and that his character is merely passable. Are we in agreement?"

Carlisle recalled the warrior, a tangle of bloodless sinew and ferocity crafted into blazing brutality, then conceded with a nod.

"And yet, despite his deficiencies, our Felix is capable of feats of memory and sense that mortals could only imagine. I need not speak of his loyalty or his devotion. In every measurable field and trial of excellence, he outstrips humans by leagues."

Although Carlisle could sense his argument's corrosion coiling between summer-sweet words, Aro's tone remained gentle, each phrase carrying with it the balletic cadence of a dozen accents.

"Can you see, dear friend, why I am disinclined to share your belief that humans are sacrosanct because of their elevated intellect and profound emotional capacity? The fact remains that they are foolish, blundering creatures when contrasted with our kind." The garnet-eyed immortal rested his chin upon his fingers, eagerness tugging at the edges of his mood's pleasant mask.

"But surely, Aro, you must see that humanity is not the consequence of worth, but of the soul's presence. Beasts do not have the capacity to create objects of beauty, to feel empathy, to worship God—" Carlisle reined his speech, catching unneeded breath. His thoughts free-wheeled at the exquisite dismissal his friend employed, a gracious carelessness that spoke only of pride.

"Ah, of course, the_ soul_." A predator's guileless grin twisted Aro's lips "I have impatiently anticipated your introduction of that little theological dilemma. Tell me, Carlisle, do you unquestioningly believe that some echo of the divine dwells within each human?"

Immediately, the honey-eyed vampire sought lyrical language to reaffirm his faith but instinct, obsidian-sharp and far darker than he had anticipated, told him to hold his tongue for Aro would only laugh at dramatic words as he tore flawed assumptions asunder. A silent nod sufficed.

"And, like so many of your esteemed contemporaries, you believe that the soul is responsible for everything beyond the human body's rudimentary tasks?"

"All that can be attributed to something beyond mere muscle and bone is a product of the soul and a testament of mankind's proximity to the divine," Carlisle agreed.

"How very strange it is that mortals cling to supernatural explanations of their very being," Aro purred. "It hints that they are attempting to justify something. Ah, but that is irrelevant to our discussion. I, of course, wholeheartedly disagree with the notion of a soul."

It seemed such an ugly sentiment to Carlisle that he could not help struggling to challenge it, unsure where to begin in unravelling a patent falsehood.

"Before I am dismissed as a blasphemer or a dangerously arrogant liar, you must recall that I am not prone to making statements without fair consideration," Aro said amicably, though a discordant distortion of impatience marred tolerant words. "You think that every aspect of humanity stems from the soul. Why is it, then, that something as crude as intoxication utterly alters a man's character for a short time, while something clumsy, an injury to the skull perhaps, warps his nature until his death? Surely a soul would ensure the stability of such key traits?"

Aro's reasoning was insidious, utterly beyond contradiction, and Carlisle could think of nothing to say. The silence was interrupted by the feathery glissando of his mentor's words.

"My dear Carlisle, do not think me naive enough to misunderstand your devotion to the soul's existence. I am certain that there is piety behind your noble position, but there is self-preservation also. Your father pursued demons, did he not?"

The question was unexpected, but Carlisle could only agree.

"And you aided him?"

Once more, the nonsensical line of inquiry drew concurrence.

"You are an intelligent man. Surely you have considered the possibility that the witches and monsters you faced were nothing more than troubled mortals? No doubt the idea seemed terribly plausible, yet you dismissed it, clinging to the misguided judgement that theirs was a malady of the soul. Then, of course, your treatment of them, although abhorrent, was absolutely preferable to damnation."

Blackness filled Carlisle's mind, as though a candle had been snuffed out, while Aro neatly enumerated the sins that had haunted him during the granite hours before dawn.

"You harmed blameless, suffering humans, those who needed your protection most, and you excused it by invoking their immortal souls, while I inflict temporary pain for a reason that is only a mirror image of yours."

There was no defence to be mustered in the short time he was allowed before Aro spoke once more.

"The sanctity of life has little to do with it, Carlisle. Some ideas justify violence; you and I know that well."

Departing from Volterra entered the golden immortal's mind and remained there, unbidden, as he clutched at the memory of his own sanctity with trembling fingers.

* * *

**Another Author's Note:** As this is a chapter about the existence of the soul, you might be wondering why I didn't include more philosophy. The reasons are two-fold: I don't know much philosophy, and philosophy can primarily be used to debate the purpose and origin of the soul, whereas science must be used to debate its existence.

The argument Aro uses is a contradiction of the idea of mind-body duality, which was prevalent at the time of Carlisle's birth and death. The theory states that the 'mind' is entirely separate from the body; it can be disproved by relying upon examples where physical stimuli alter key characteristics of an individual's behaviour and core personality.

Finally, I realize that this chapter may be harsh in its treatment of Carlisle's character. It is important to remember that his father, as well as Carlisle himself, hunted witches, demons and vampires. Given that the supernatural is quite elusive, even in the _Twilight_ series, it seemed much more likely to me that Carlisle did the more historically common thing and confused mental illness for demonic influence.


End file.
